surgicalsnack

scratchy jazz sifted in from the other room. i wasn't sure if the dust was on the record, or if the music was being garbled by the dust in the air. i could see it drifting lazily through the shaft of light streaming through the crack in the drapes. i imagined that it was like a three dimensional version of those little wind-up music boxes. turn the crank, the studded metal cylinder turns, music happens. but the dust worked in reverse. the music was a wave, a vertical sheet moving toward me through the empty space of the room, warping and distorting like liquid whenever it encountered a solid object. the dust punched holes in it, and the music just piled up behind it.

the dust motes looked like stars, a whole galaxy in that thin, watery slice.